Everybody Wants Merlin
by ForzaDelDestino
Summary: Set shortly after the events of Episode 9, Series 4. Morgana has been quite successful in separating Camelot's new young king from those he trusts or cares about. With Uther and Lancelot gone, and Guinevere banished, she selects Merlin as the next to be eliminated. But damn it all, Morgause never did teach her exactly the right spell for this sort of thing.
1. Chapter 1

_Written after re-watching Episode 9 of Series 4, which definitely put me in a melancholy frame of mind. To cheer myself up I wrote this completely nonsensical, silly fic, safe in the knowledge that none of the BBC cast or crew will ever read it! [Apologies to Shakespeare, for cribbing lines from _Macbeth_.]_

* * *

**Everybody Wants Merlin: **Chapter 1

Well, even though things had worked out the way she'd planned, what with Guinevere being labeled a slut and exiled from Camelot, Lancelot's unfortunate shade being returned to the Otherworld where it bloody well belonged, and Arthur totally despondent—for all of his iron-jawed, stoic demeanor—Morgana wasn't satisfied. Not really. How could any girl be satisfied, stuck in a forest hovel, with no access at all to jewelry merchants, silk merchants, servants, or men who might appreciate a pretty face and flair for wearing clothes. In fact, even if there had been any men about, how could they appreciate her for the beauty she was, when her current wardrobe was limited to shabby black frocks and shawls, her hair hadn't been dressed properly in months, she only had _two pairs of shoes,_ _for pity's sake_, and there were simply no cosmetics to be had in the wilderness.

She had tried conjuring up a fashionable crimson gown, but the damn thing had turned to cobwebs—or was it a pumpkin?—at the stroke of midnight, and she'd had to dash back to the hut stark raving naked, covered with goosebumps and humiliated. It was obvious…she might be proficient at casting spells on dead men, controlling men's minds with feomorrahs or whatever, and opening the door between two worlds by sacrificing blood relatives, but Morgause had never taught her any _practical_ magic—spells to turn vine leaves into gold necklaces and berries into jewels, or whip up a fetching frock at a moment's notice, for example.

So here she was, friendless, fashion-challenged, and nobody to admire her but stupid Agravaine. He might bow and scrape and do her bidding, but he was practically her _uncle_, for god's sake, and when he paid her compliments or slid his eyes in her direction, it kind of made her skin crawl. And to think that she had once had the worship of every young man in Camelot, from haughty lordling to lowly servant, and that she had taken it all for granted. Why even that skinny, troublemaking pup, Merlin, had brought her flowers.

Ha! Merlin. That reminded her. It wasn't enough that Arthur had lost his father, his beloved Gwen, and Lancelot, one of his finest and most noble-hearted knights. He must lose everything and anybody who meant anything to him. Why not force him to dismiss his devoted, faithful manservant, the one person who had always stood by him, following him about like an oversized puppy, enduring his insults, and foiling a number of her most heinous plots to murder the young king. An excellent idea! Humming to herself, Morgana crouched over her cauldron, tossing in everything she could remember from that spell Morgause had taught her over a year ago. Was it eye of newt and toe of…hog? Dog? Frog? Oh, bloody hell! Wool of bat and…why did these spells have to be so disgusting? Oh, she mustn't forget the blind-worm's sting, whatever that was. Morgana scratched her head in confusion, and then scratched again, dolefully wondering if she had got fleas. It wouldn't surprise her, living in a cobwebby cottage in the middle of nowhere.

If Morgana hadn't been a _lady_—no, a noblewoman, a _princess_, who should have been queen, into the bargain—she would have said, "Oh, bloody fuck!"

Now how did the incantation go? Honestly, solitude was beginning to affect her memory.

"Powers of darkness, hear me," she rasped. (By all the gods, now she had _a sore throat_!) No, that wasn't right. "Fire burn and cauldron bubble." And damn, but the Old Tongue, the language of spells and incantations, was almost impossible to memorize. Was "passion" _meahtmod_ or _cwaeþ_…or neither? Suddenly everything seemed too much of a burden. More than anything in the world, Morgana wanted to kick the cauldron over, collapse in her most comfortable chair, burst into tears, and get roaring drunk. But no, first she had to take care of the little matter of her half brother's manservant. If one was to go by the evidence, or at least by what Arthur had always said, he had put up with insolence, laziness, incompetence, and persistent tavern-going by Merlin, so what could possibly move him to throw his servant out of Camelot for good? Arthur had tolerated a great deal of careless behavior, so what sort of behavior would make him intolerant?

Arthur was—at least outwardly—a notorious stickler for high moral standards, so one way, perhaps, was to make it appear that Merlin of Ealdor was the biggest man-whore in all of Camelot.

The problem was that Merlin was anything but. However, if _every person under the age of thirty_ found the scrawny wretch irresistible and tried to get into his trousers…Morgana didn't think that Arthur would put up with such a distasteful state of affairs.

A simple, twenty-four hour spell ought to do the trick. Now, if only she could remember the blasted ingredients!

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Merlin was only half awake when he was jolted into the realization that something was definitely amiss in Camelot. Or at least, out of the ordinary.

He had crawled, bleary-eyed, out of bed, washed, swallowed Gaius' scalding, lumpy porridge, and headed for the armory, where Arthur's helmet was undergoing a bit of repair. On the way, he had to pass the stables, and before he knew what was happening, an arm snaked out and dragged him within.

It was Editha, who worked in the kitchens. She was a large, strong girl, and without giving Merlin a chance to say good morning, or ask her what appeared to be the problem, she had him flat on his back in the clean straw of one of the empty horse stalls and straddled his hips, muffling his protests in her considerable cleavage.

It wouldn't have been practical to use magic to escape her, and anyway, she was pretty, and her vigorous ministrations put to rest the rather sizeable problem he had woken up with, that morning. (Oh blast, he awoke with one every morning, and had been assured by Gaius that this was common to all the lads his age.) But when Merlin staggered out of the stable fifteen minutes later, the laces of his breeches still unfastened, it did occur to him to wonder just what (apart from himself) had gotten into the girl. She had never had more than the most casual greeting for him in the past, and hadn't struck him as the sort of female who flung herself at a fellow without a word of warning.

Pulling bits of straw out of his rumpled hair, Merlin sagged against the armory doorpost and came to the conclusion that it must have been some kind of…spell.

It wasn't that he had never been on the receiving end of feminine attention. Of course he had, in the years since his arrival in Camelot. He might not be a muscular Apollo, like Arthur, but he was aware, in spite of his modesty, that a number of girls found him both appealing and attractive. (There were the girls from the dairy, who flirted with him, Agnes the cook called him a "pretty boy," and Lord Tancred's wife, Gisela, had put her hand on his backside at the feast of Beltane, when she was drunk.) Not to mention that one or two of the older squires, even one or two of the knights (his friend Gwaine was the most obvious of the lot), had looked him over with interest. But this went beyond simply _looking_, and given that it was quite out of character for Editha, there was only one explanation.

Perhaps Editha's mother, one of the palace laundresses, was a sorceress. Perhaps she had cast the spell in the hopes of getting her daughter married to a man with close ties to the young king.

That the spell, or whatever it was, went beyond Editha's sudden infatuation became glaringly obvious when Merlin attempted to deliver the newly repaired helmet to Arthur's quarters. He had passed the steward's forty-something wife, the tailor's wife, and several of the older knights without receiving so much as a glance from any of them, but when he said good morning to the baker's saucy daughter, Alis, her eyes lit up with glee and she backed him into one of the empty guest chambers, where—

"Oooo-er, those eyes!" gurgled Alis admiringly, before she lunged forward with nothing so much as a by-your-leave, and went straight for the jugular. Except that it wasn't, er, exactly his jugular.

This wouldn't do. This really would not do. He would have no energy left for his afternoon duties, if things went on like this for the rest of the morning. Having left Alis in a blissful and satisfied heap on the floor, Merlin managed to evade two of the young maidservants, who chased him down the hallway, and catch his breath in the king's antechamber. As he waited for his pulse to subside—feeling highly aggrieved at having been transformed into a sex object wanted for little more than his cock—he went over counterspells in his mind. What was it that Gaius had told him about enchantments that affected more than one person at a time? Who could possibly be responsible for the current state of affairs? Who was powerful enough, well trained enough in magic, and who might wish to discredit the young king's manservant, not to mention cause both the king and the manservant the worst sort of embarrassment?

Obviously, somebody wanted Merlin to be caught violating all of the rules of courtly behavior by shagging every damsel in Camelot.

Merlin wriggled his shoulders uncomfortably, but could come up with only one rational choice of an instigator for all of this.

The Lady Morgana.

Who had once been his friend; and at one time he had even, secretly, fancied her. Almost as much as he sometimes fancied Ar—

"_Merlin!_" bawled Arthur from his chambers, and Merlin gave such a start that he nearly dropped the now gleaming and dent-free helmet.

Trust the royal prat to interrupt his thoughts, just when he was trying to work out what to do about this ridiculous and exhausting state of affairs.

"Yes, sire?" he said dutifully as he trotted into the king's bedchamber, helmet under one arm, hoping he didn't look excessively disheveled. If he did, Arthur would either snap at him, or make some of his usual "Merlin is a hopeless idiot" comments, neither of which Merlin was in much of a mood to listen to. And if he told the truth, there was no doubt whatsoever in his mind that Arthur would come very close to dying from laughter.

The young king was tapping his fingers impatiently on the table.

"My _breakfast_, Merlin?" he said pointedly, looking from the empty tabletop to his rumpled manservant.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," Merlin replied, more meekly than was his wont. "I…I went to fetch your, you know, your helmet, and as I was walking down the corridor, I…"

"You were set upon by rabid thieves, from the look of you," Arthur said dryly. "Well, don't just stand there, trying to think up stupid excuses. Get my breakfast, go on!"

Merlin went. As he waited in the kitchens for one of the cooks to load up his tray, he counted to ten, and then to twenty, in an effort to keep his temper. He was, naturally, accustomed to Arthur's morning crankiness and tendency to hurl insults or objects in his direction, but he had also gotten used to being treated—however infrequently—as a trusted friend, a confidant, and a sort of comrade-in-arms, even if he himself rarely carried a weapon.

Well, at least the bloody prat had gotten dressed all by himself that morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Everybody Wants Merlin:** Chapter 2

Arthur was pacing restlessly when Merlin returned with the heavily laden tray, which he set down with a thump that was a bit louder than necessary.

"We hunt after the midday meal," he said shortly, not looking in his manservant's direction. Arthur's voice was now subdued and his face was slightly drawn, and paler than usual; his fair hair was every which way, as if he had just run his fingers through it with exasperation. Merlin, who put all of this down to the strain of having sent Gwen into exile, and the loss of that exceptional knight and trusted friend, Lancelot, made an attempt to look sympathetic.

"I'll fetch your hunting gear, then," he said in an encouraging voice, and backed out of the room. Arthur turned and glanced at him as he left, and Merlin noticed that it was a rather strange look, as though his mind had been befuddled with too much drink and he was trying not to show it.

In all honesty, it wasn't difficult to feel sympathetic towards Arthur at this moment. He was a new king, regarded with near-veneration by his knights, but still seen as an untried youth by the rulers of neighboring kingdoms. It was plain that he felt doubly betrayed, first by the finest of his knights, and then by a sweet-natured, kind, and pretty woman who had been a friend for years, and for whom he harbored feelings of genuine affection. On the other hand, Merlin was certain that Morgana had had a hand in both "betrayals," and he couldn't help but be angry with Arthur for having sent Gwen away so precipitously. Why hadn't the pigheaded prat allowed her to stay in Camelot, even if he had to cast her off as his future queen?

On his way back to the armory, Merlin made a concerted effort to avoid any of the young servant girls, not wishing to end up on his back yet again, face to face with a situation involving (his) dubious consent. When the curvaceous Lady Matilda—oh gods, no, not a _noblewoman_—smiled at him in the main hall and beckoned him over, he made a hasty gesture to indicate he was on the king's errand and fled unceremoniously. If he were to be found in a compromising position with a member of the nobility…well, the stocks would seem like a pleasure jaunt by comparison to the punishment he might face.

Just to make certain that it was _really and truly a spell_ that he was dealing with here, and that it only affected persons _under_ a certain age, Merlin paused in the vicinity of Lady Adela, a now-faded beauty who had, perhaps three decades ago, been the toast of Camelot and a good deal more besides. (Elderly knights always glanced knowingly at each other when she passed by them, but Morgana, in the days before her defection to The Dark Side, had been wont to refer to her as "that grumpy old bat.") Lady Adela turned her sharp, grey eyes in Merlin's direction, and he gave her what he hoped was a winning smile. To his profound relief, she simply looked down her nose and turned away with an audible sniff, clear evidence that females past their first bloom were not swayed by the enchantment that seemed to be afflicting young girls.

There was nothing, mused Merlin, that he could do except determine—perhaps with Gaius' help—precisely what this spell was, and how to counter it. Until then, he would make a concerted effort to avoid every damsel in the castle. Fortunately, the heavens seemed to take his side in the matter, for they opened up and deluged the courtyard with rain the moment he stepped outside. Almost everybody made a mad dash for shelter, and Merlin was able to slink into the armory, retrieve Arthur's hunting kit, and re-enter the main hall without attracting any notice. Sodden with rainwater, he made his way up the stairs and ran smack into Gwaine and Percival, who were standing in a window embrasure, watching the storm turn the courtyard into a sea of mud.

"All right, Merlin," Gwaine said companionably, slinging an arm across his friend's shoulders. "His worship got you running about like a rabbit, has he?"

"No, not really," replied Merlin, his mind half on the spears, boots, and leather gauntlets he was clutching to his chest. "He's, well, he doesn't seem quite himself. I suppose it's—you know."

"I suppose it's his guilty conscience, for sending Guinevere away," snorted Gwaine, never at a loss for words when it came to his opinion of the ruling class. "It's hard on Elyan as well, and none of us think all that much happened between her and Lancelot. I mean, they were kissing, right? But nobody ever said they were _fucking_. And it isn't as if Arthur's never kissed another girl, is it?"

"Merlin must know," Percival said, inching closer and brushing the back of Merlin's hand with his fingers. "Well, hasn't he?"

"I…I wouldn't know," said Merlin staunchly, drawing his hand away. "He, erm, doesn't talk to me about those things."

"Speaking of _those things_," Gwaine murmured, and suddenly the arm about Merlin's shoulders tightened. "There's a band of traveling minstrels who'll be at the tavern this evening…fancy a little trip to the lower town, once his worship lets you go for the night?"

His voice had gone all soft and gravelly, and he drew the back of his hand, the knuckles hard and unyielding, down the side of Merlin's face. Merlin flinched and some of the royal hunting gear went clattering to the floor.

It was obvious, now, that Morgana's spell had not been designed to ignite the passions of young women only. Percival had never shown the slightest interest in boys or men, before; he was strictly one for the ladies. And Gwaine—well, he had always had a tendency to flirt with anything that lived and breathed, and if Merlin had ever been willing…but now it appeared that he wanted to move past the flirtation stage, whether Merlin was willing or not. And it wasn't likely that either of the knights would want Merlin to shag _them_. It was far more probable that they would want to—

"Here, you," protested Percival, shoving Gwaine aside and draping his own large arm round Merlin's neck. He was wearing his armor, and the press of his vambrace against Merlin's nape was not particularly pleasant. "I was thinking of taking Merlin out to the horse pasture tonight. You know, show him the new colts." He began to fidget, as if some portion of his hauberk, below the waist, had suddenly become too tight. "It's about time Arthur gave you a proper horse, Merlin, you—"

"Geroff," muttered Gwaine, pushing the much taller Percival so vigorously that he nearly stumbled. "You don't care about that, do you Merlin?" He crooked an elbow round Merlin's waist, one hand resting, almost casually, on his hip. "You come with me, and I'll—"

"_Ahem_, _Mer_lin." Arthur's crisp, cold voice, dripping with sarcasm, cut Gwaine off in mid-sentence. "I'm _delighted_ to see you remembered to fetch my hunting things. Now, if you'd just get a move on, perhaps we can head out before _nightfall_."

The young king was standing in the open doorway of his bedchamber, one hand on the massive wooden doorframe, fingers (as usual) tapping impatiently, eyebrows raised.

Merlin, who had been standing stock still, aghast at the dark hunger he saw in the eyes of the two young knights—both of whom were so much stronger than he, _and he would never be able to fight them both off without using magic!—_scooped up the fallen hunting gear and dartedaway from them into the king's chambers, hoping Arthur didn't think that he had been flirting, or that he really wanted, erm…because the gods only knew, he didn't.

He hesitated in the doorway until Arthur's hand shot out, took him by the scruff of the neck, and dragged him the rest of the way inside.

"You're drenched," said Arthur accusingly, staring, as Merlin dripped rainwater onto the stone floor. "You haven't let the leather get wet, have you?" He eyed the gauntlets, boots, and jerkin in his manservant's arms with suspicion.

"No, sire," replied Merlin truthfully. He had protected the hunting accoutrements with _just a little spell_, but there was no reason to even hint at this fact. "Should I help you with your boots?" He set them down by Arthur's bed and waited.

The young king was gnawing at his lower lip. "Take those off," he rapped out tersely, gesturing at Merlin's soggy garb. "I'll lend you one of my things for the time being." He tossed a slightly worn but still perfectly serviceable linen shirt in his manservant's general direction.

Merlin complied, wriggling out of his soaked shirt and then fumbling at the laces of his breeches. He stumbled a little as he kicked off his boots, knocking against the table and rattling Arthur's breakfast dishes. It was cold in the high-ceilinged room, and a damp wind blew threw the open window; he curled his arms round his chest, realizing that he must be a sight, standing naked and shivering in the middle of the royal bedchamber, covered with goosebumps, his still-wet hair sticking out in all directions like the spines of a hedgehog. He reached for the shirt, and stumbled for a second time, over his abandoned boots.

"Merlin," said Arthur sternly. "Have you been on the cider?"

"Hardly," replied Merlin, scowling. (Why did Arthur always have to think that he was drunk?) "Do you think you could add to your munificence by lending me an old pair of hose, or something?"

"Right," murmured Arthur dryly, but he made no move to do so, instead pulling off his own richly dyed short tunic, and sorting through piles of shirts in his clothes chest for one of the simpler garments he usually wore in the field. "We'll both need something else to wear, if we do go hunting…that is, if the weather clears up. Even if it doesn't, I wouldn't mind riding for a bit; I need to get out of here, clear my head."

"Fine," Merlin said bleakly as he shook out the crumpled shirt. "If you don't mind your leathers getting soaked. And you know as well as I do that we won't find any proper game in this downpour."

"You mean, _you_ wouldn't be able to," the young king replied with a touch of smugness, crossing the room, clad only in his breeches, and peering out of the window. "I can find game in any weather, thanks very much. I'm shocked by your lack of confidence in me."

"I never said it would be _impossible_ to find something," grumbled Merlin, still attempting to find the hem of the shirt. "But who wants to wrestle a sopping wet boar? Yeah, yeah, I know, you can catch anything, anything that moves." He stepped gingerly across the cold floor towards Arthur's wardrobe in the hope of finding a spare set of breeches or hose, and was taken completely by surprise when Arthur said, "Even you," and took a flying leap at his startled manservant, knocking him onto the bearskin rug by the hearth.

"Got you!" Arthur sang out triumphantly as he pinned Merlin flat.

"All right, all right," Merlin grumbled, trying to free his arms. "You win. You're the greatest hunter ever. Now, if you'd just let me get up—" And then he stopped talking, because Arthur was looking at him quizzically, as if something had just now occurred to him and he wasn't certain what to do about it. Merlin pushed ineffectually at his shoulders, suddenly reminded that he wasn't wearing anything, and aware of the solidity of Arthur's thighs pressed against his own, the warmth of his skin and the breadth of the chest that was (save for the light dusting of hair between his nipples) so smooth beneath his palms.

Still frowning slightly, as though trying to think something through, Arthur slid one arm beneath Merlin's waist, and put his free hand into the damp spikes of his black hair, turning his face up. Then, as Merlin gawped at him in astonishment, he lowered his head and kissed him.

Merlin felt his entire body jump and flinch with surprise, but Arthur did not release him and simply went on with his kissing. His eyes were half closed, his expression was rapt and almost ecstatic as his lips and tongue investigated the fullness and soft contours of Merlin's mouth. Ah, of course—Merlin would have kicked himself if he could get his legs free—it was the spell! If it could make the phlegmatic _Percival_, of all people, want to shag him, surely it could have this effect on the young king of Camelot.

"I'd quite forgotten how pretty you are, Merlin," Arthur said, running a finger over the sharp, sweeping lines of his manservant's cheekbones, brushing his spiky fringe off his forehead, lightly tapping the bridge of his straight, slender nose. "I mean, you're a bit skinny, but never mind that."

"I'm _not _pretty," Merlin insisted, muffled, as Arthur nibbled at the arched cupid's bow of his upper lip. "Arthur, what are you _doing_?"

Arthur wouldn't be doing this if he weren't under some sort of enchantment…would he?

Spell or no spell, being in Arthur's arms was like nothing Merlin had ever experienced before, certainly nothing like those confusing, whirlwind moments with Editha and Alis earlier in the day. For one thing, he didn't fumble frantically, as the girls had; his hands were as sure of themselves as they were when he practiced with the sword or spear or bow. For another thing, he was—Merlin gritted his teeth—so much more beautiful, with the glint of clear blue beneath his half-closed lids, golden hair fallen forward over his brow, his bronzed cheeks lightly flushed, broad, muscular shoulders gleaming in the firelight. Somehow or other, he had managed to unfasten the front of his breeches, and now he took Merlin's wrist in a strong grip and guided his hand to where he wanted it to go.

"Ah!" said Merlin, helplessly, but he permitted Arthur's hand to show his hand what to do, then lay still for a moment, and let Arthur slide one leg between his. At this he felt his entire body tense, because he, himself, had become achingly hard and erect, and because he was afraid that Arthur was about to put something where he wasn't quite sure he wanted to receive it. But Arthur only fitted himself more snugly against Merlin, hip to hip (as they were nearly of a height), so that they could rub themselves together more easily, the burning heat of his cock sliding back and forth over Merlin's loins and the base of his stomach.

"I don't think we'll try that other thing, just yet," Arthur murmured as though talking to himself. "Next time, perhaps."

"Wh—what?" stammered Merlin, in a panic, wondering how Arthur could actually articulate anything at the moment; he himself was barely able to speak. "Other thing? What next time? Arthur! Oh!" he added with a whimper, as Arthur's large, well-shaped hand, the skin hard and faintly calloused from hours of swordplay, took him in a firm grip.

"Shut up, Merlin," the young king said happily, and bent down to engulf Merlin's reddened, swollen lips with his own.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I don't suppose," said Morgana, biting her lips with chagrin, "that you've noticed any sign of Arthur wanting to rid himself of that wretched Merlin?"

Agravaine turned and looked at her with an obsequious smile; really, she wished he wouldn't do that. She needed him—as her spy at court, her informer, a man her stepbrother was foolish enough to trust—but when he smirked at her in that way, it was enough to turn her stomach.

"Why, no," said Agravaine after a moment, looking surreptitiously around the shabby cottage interior for some place to sit down. "I can't say that I've even seen Merlin all morning. What sort of spell did you say you used on him?"

"I didn't!" snapped Morgana crossly, clenching her hands with frustration. (Honestly, the man couldn't be more dense at times.) "I didn't cast the spell on _him_. Just tell me whether you've noticed anybody behaving oddly…perhaps the stupid boy is in hiding and twenty-four hours won't do the trick after all."

"I'm certain that whatever spell you cast will be effective, my lady," murmured Agravaine in a conciliatory voice. He sat down on one of Morgana's rickety chairs, which promptly broke under his weight.

"I don't know," Morgana replied tersely, as Agravaine picked himself off the floor, covered with dust. "But if I can't rely upon you for information, I may need to go and see for myself."


End file.
